


I, Mairon Aulendil

by QuincyJones



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Clockwork mice, I'm calling Saruman Curumo b/c fuck Sindarin, M/M, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 05:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10757211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuincyJones/pseuds/QuincyJones
Summary: This was a paper I wrote for English that I'm just now realizing is actual fan fiction. Basically, it's the wretched story of Sauron, a character I know I shouldn't love nearly as much as I do, but adore anyways. Rated Teen for heavy angst. Have fun!





	I, Mairon Aulendil

First of all, before we begin, I want to make something very clear: “Aulendil” is not my last name. It is a title of sorts, meaning “beloved of Aulë”, and while I’m quite sure that’s no longer true, it was once a very important part of my identity, so I would like to keep it attached to my name, thank you very much. 

All right, now that that’s out of the way, we can start.

  
I am Sauron. Yes, that Sauron. The one in that fancy book (or movie if you prefer) with that shiny ring and a thirst for hobbit-blood, or was that my underling Saruman? You can never remember, can you? Oh well, it isn’t any matter, really. That was but the sad, slow end to a tear-jerking existence.

  
No, my story started long ago, when I was not considered evil as I am today.

  
When I was young, I worked in a forge under a, er, god, if you will. His name was Aulë, and he was something called a Vala. I was one of his most beloved servants, because I was always eager to please, and on top of that, I boasted a high level of skill. Not that I was particularly boastful in those days. In fact, I was shy, and wouldn’t speak with anyone unless I absolutely had to, even dear Curumo, who loved me very much. That’s Saruman to you. We were all young in those days, happy in our complacency and relatively carefree.

  
That changed when I met him.

  
Who’s he?

  
Well, he’s Melkor, of course.

  
Don’t listen to Tolkien. He’s tried to paint Melkor in the worst light possible, calling him a villain and all manner of horrible things. Melkor was anything but. In a world where people were content to sit on their metaphorical chairs and embroider with red, blue, and yellow, he went and found them purple, and beautiful iridescent green, all for the sake of adding to the beauty of the world. He wanted people to see, to no longer be content with just the primary colors, and go off mixing their own.

  
What did he get for it? A thousand years in the Void! T’was a thousand years away from everything and everyone; t’was a thousand years to break him and drive him insane.

  
I followed him. When Aulë learned of my wonderful creations, my little clockwork mice that ran around on their own, my lovely flowers that bloomed and lasted forever, he cast them into the fire and told me to never create such things again. I cried for months on end, hiding in my room, refusing to see anyone, until one day Melkor knocked on my door, to give me back my last mouse: a tiny, frightened little thing he’d saved from the fire. From that moment on, my loyalty was his.  
He was a good master, and I loved him more than anything, except perhaps that little mouse. He taught me the secrets of Iluvatar’s song, how to shape the world and make it sing. He taught me how to go beyond blindly following orders and into creation.

  
They took him away from me; for a thousand years they let him rot, and when he returned to lead us once more, he was forever changed.

  
His mind had bent to destruction. No more singing, no more dancing, no more sparkling halls of glass- All turned to warcraft, to wipe out everyone that would not stand behind him.

  
I loved him still, but I feared him, and through that slow descent to madness I followed him perhaps more out of a nostalgia towards what he had once been than any loyalty to what he was now. I believed that maybe, just maybe, I could save him.

  
I was wrong.

  
He fell, and I fell with him.

  
I was able to return, as a shadow of my former self, taking up residence in a beautiful forest called the Greenwood. It was full of elves, and by this point I’d decided that I truly detested elves, so I corrupted the forest with spiders and dark magic.  
Another myth exposed for you, folks- There is no such thing as black magic. There is no one type of magic that is somehow more evil than another. It is only how you use it that determines what kind of magic it is. Have that, Gandalf Greyhame!

  
In days past, I had created a ring that held most of my power, for the elf Celebrimbor to use. Perhaps that was not such a good idea, for when it was finished, Celebrimbor made sure to sever my connection to it, so that I may only access the wealth of puissance it held if it sat on my finger. They call me the trickster. Ha! ‘Tis not so.

  
In my war that I waged against the elves, dwarves, and their precious little men, somebody named Isildur somehow managed to defeat me, stealing that ring from my finger. What followed was my last-ditch attempt to get it back. If I could, I told myself, I could raise Melkor again, and this time, I could save him.

  
‘Twas not so.

  
I failed. It was cast into the fires from whence it came, and all my hopes were gone, cleaved from me in one fell swoop.

  
“No,” I protested, my voice weak. “Why?”

  
“Why did you take him from me?”

  
I turned to my little mouse, the one that sat on my shoulder, the one that had been there since the day Melkor, dear Melkor, scooped it out of a raging inferno.

  
“I’ve failed,” I said to it, and it chittered back at me sorrowfully.

  
“I’ve failed,” I said again, and the room echoed with its mournful squeaks. I set it down on the ground and told it to run. When it had gotten out of range, I tore everything apart. My tower, my wall, myself.

  
“Master, I come to join thee,” said I.

  
“Goodbye, everyone, though to whom I speak I know not, for there is no one left who will miss me. Not even dear Curumo has love for me anymore; he has gone away and left me to the wolves.”

  
“Goodbye, world. I am going home.”

 


End file.
